Old Friends, Rituals, and Reassurances
by GMTH
Summary: An old friend helps Carrie put a few things into perspective. Spoilers for season 3, including the season finale. Written for the Trope Bingo community on LiveJournal. Trope: holidayfic


"Look, I don't want to talk about this right now, okay?"

"Okay, okay. Fine." Dad put his hands up in mock surrender. "Give it some thought, and we'll talk about it when you come home." He lowered his hands slowly, giving her a chance to reply, but Carrie held her tongue. This was a promise she refused to make. The trip was going to be hard enough as it was. "Speaking of which," he continued after a few moments of awkward silence, "when are you coming home?"

_I'm_ not _coming home_, she wanted to say. _I'm coming back to Washington._ "I'm flying in on the twenty-first."

The baby meandered into view, and Dad scooped her up and plopped her into his lap. She pulled the forefinger she'd been chewing on from between her front teeth and used it to poke at the webcam. The view on Carrie's end disappeared in a pink blur.

"That's perfect." Dad's face swam back into focus as the laptop screen cleared. "Ruby and Josie have their school Christmas concert – excuse me, winter holiday concert – on the twenty-second, so you'll get home just in time."

"Sounds good," Carrie said, hoping her anticipatory tone sounded more convincing to her father than it did to her own ears. She couldn't look at the giggling baby as Dad bounced her on his knee. "Can't wait."

"Me, either. It's been way too long since you came home." He probably didn't mean for it to sound as accusatory as it did, but subtlety had never been his strong suit. Just one of the many things she had inherited from him.

Carrie stifled a sigh and tucked her hair behind her ear just as her cell phone buzzed. She picked it up and saw an incoming text from a friend. "It's from work," she lied, waving the phone in front of the camera. "I have to take this. I'll e-mail you my itinerary, okay?"

"Okay, honey. We'll meet you at the airport." The baby shrieked and twisted in his arms, and the sound cut through Carrie like a knife. He turned away from the camera to set the child on her feet. "See you next week."

Carrie closed the connection before he could turn back and see her brimming eyes.

* * *

Her legs felt like jelly as she trudged up the incline from Customs to baggage claim, dragging her carry-on behind her. Dulles teemed with holiday travelers, every one of them tired and grumpy after long flights, long weather delays, and long lines at Customs. People rushed by all around her, chattering to one another in a dozen different languages, all eager to collect their bags and escape the hell on Earth that was every airport in the country the week before Christmas.

Carrie was in no hurry. It was the first time she'd been back in over a year, and she felt like she should be excited about seeing the family again. She should be racing to the baggage carousels just like everyone else, standing on tiptoe to see over the shoulders of the people in front of her, hoping to catch a glimpse of her suitcase as it slid out of the chute. Instead, she plodded along with her eyes trained on the floor, as though a needle full of potassium chloride were waiting for her up ahead instead of her family. She had spent much of the ten hours she'd had on the plane trying to muster up some happiness at the idea of seeing them again, but all she'd been able to manage was a growing sense of dread.

Well, that wasn't completely true. She was looking forward to being with Josie and Ruby again. The girls were growing up so fast, if their Facebook shenanigans and timeline photos were any indication. She would be Josie's roommate for this visit, Maggie had informed her with a note of apology in her voice, as they'd turned her old bedroom into a nursery. There was no need for Maggie's apologies, though; Carrie couldn't wait to curl up with the two girls and a big bowl of popcorn for a movie of their choosing, or better yet an all-night gossip and bitch fest while they brought her up to date on the goings-on in their lives. It would be the highlight of the trip, and might even make the whole thing worthwhile.

They called her "Auntie Carrie," and she loved it, because it was true. She _was_ their aunt. They didn't call Maggie "Auntie Maggie." She was their mother. They knew it, everybody knew it, and they were all free to acknowledge it. It was such a simple thing; the most basic thing in the world, really. Carrie wondered if Maggie had any idea how lucky she was to be living such an uncomplicated life.

She rounded the corner and glanced up at the display to see which carousel would be dispensing the bags from her flight. A large crowd of people jockeyed for position around it, including several people she recognized from the plane, but the carousel had not yet begun to turn. Carrie worked her way across the room, examining each face in the line of limo drivers and assorted family members and friends waiting to whisk their loved ones away to their final destinations. This was almost certainly where Dad would be waiting for her, the baby riding on his hip, or perhaps asleep in her stroller.

Her daughter. Jesus Christ. How the fuck was she supposed to handle this?

A familiar figure was standing at the end of the row, but it wasn't her father. Carrie's next breath was a sharp, surprised gasp. He smiled when he caught sight of her, a broad, close-lipped smile that made his entire face radiate pure joy.

The dread and worry that had plagued her since she'd boarded the plane in Istanbul were forgotten as he peeled away from the line. He spread his arms as they strode toward each other, each breaking into a slow trot in the final few steps, and she hurled herself against his chest when they reached one another.

"Oh, my God, Saul," she breathed as he enfolded her in a tight hug. "It's so great to see you." She screwed her eyes shut against the hot sting of sudden tears, curling her free arm around his waist while he pressed a line of kisses to her forehead, punctuating the final one with a wordless exclamation of happiness. "What are you _doing_ here?"

She felt his response vibrate through his chest, but just as he began to speak the carousel's buzzer sounded three sharp blasts. His words were drowned out by the rising noise of the crowd and the mechanical hum of the carousel as it rumbled into life. "C'mon," he said, his beard tickling the shell of her ear as he spoke directly into it. "We can talk in the car."

He took hold of the handle of her carry-on and guided her to the carousel with one arm draped around her shoulders. Carrie tucked her head beneath his chin, and they stood together in silence as the sea of baggage first swelled to a torrent, then shrank to a trickle as one by one, the cases were picked up by their owners. She saw her own bag coming toward them and let it pass, loath to leave the warmth and protection of Saul's embrace. He seemed to soak up all the negative energy she'd brought with her from Istanbul, replacing it with something kind and loving instead, something that made her feel far less anxious about what the next few days might bring. It was amazing, this talent of his for being in exactly the right place at precisely the moment she needed him, before she even realized it herself.

The bag made five circuits before she finally pointed at it, and he reached down and hauled it up over the carousel wall.

"I missed you, too," he said, setting it upright on the ground next to her.

* * *

"You look good," Carrie said, turning halfway in her seat to face him. "The private sector obviously agrees with you."

Saul smiled, but didn't take his eyes off the road. The traffic around the airport was heavy and moving at a good clip. "Not so private anymore," he said. "I've been doing some consulting for DHS. These past few months, anyway. That's how I happened to be down here this week."

"Really. I had no idea."

"No, you wouldn't," he said with a chuckle. "Homeland Security and the CIA tend to give each other the silent treatment, don't they."

"What kind of consulting?"

"Well, I could tell you –" he started, and they finished the sentence in unison "–but then I'd have to kill you."

"Right," Carrie said. "I forgot. You're old school." Brake lights appeared in front of them. Saul glanced over his shoulder and maneuvered the car into the middle lane. "So, New York to Washington, that's quite a commute," Carrie said. "How's Mira feel about that?"

His grip on the steering wheel tightened, his smile fading completely for the first time since he'd met her in the terminal. "Mira's gone back to Mumbai," he said. "For good this time, I think."

"Oh, Saul." She put one hand on his arm. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he said, patting her hand. "It's been coming for a long time. And I'm all right. I've been keeping myself busy, and I still have a lot of friends around here." The pat turned to a gentle squeeze. "Plus one more, now that you're home."

"Have you heard from her at all?"

"Not since the end of September," he sighed. "I'll have to get in touch with her come January, though. I've decided to sell the apartment in New York." He released her hand and curled his fingers around the wheel again. "In fact," he said, "I was hoping you might have some time to help me look for a place down here while you're home. I'd welcome your opinion."

"Sure, I'd be happy to," she said, withdrawing her hand, though really, the idea made her sad. Saul and Mira had been together almost thirty years. Carrie had never known him without Mira in his life. It was hard to imagine the two of them apart, and if it was hard for her, it had to be impossible for him. "Do you have to go back to New York before the holidays?" she asked.

"No, I'll be here through mid-January."

"Then why don't you come spend Christmas with us? I don't want you to be alone, and I'm sure Maggie and Bill won't mind." _And to hell with it if they do_, she thought. She needed him there if she were going to make it through the day in one piece.

His smile was back. "I'm sure they won't," he said, "since I've already been invited."

Carrie cocked her head and stared at him, her brow wrinkling with surprise. "Oh really," she said. "And how the hell did that happen?"

"I dropped in at Maggie's today. I thought maybe you'd be coming home for Christmas, and I wanted to surprise you."

"Oh, I get it," she said. "That must have been when they drafted you to come pick me up."

"No, no. I volunteered. Things seem a bit... hectic over there. Last minute Christmas stuff, I guess. Your father, especially, seemed to be coming unglued."

Carrie glanced at him sharply, alarmed. "Wait a minute, you don't mean –"

"No, I'm sorry," he said, giving her a reassuring pat on the leg. "Poor choice of words. He's fine. He's just so excited about you coming home. And about making Christmas special for..." He paused, just for a moment, but it was long enough for all of Carrie's trepidation to rush back in. "For everyone," he finished lamely.

She turned back in her seat and looked out her window. "For Nicole, you mean."

A tractor trailer roared past them on the right, its rear tire flaps emblazoned with a silhouette of a shapely woman leaning back on her hands. It passed the two SUVs in front of them and was halfway through overtaking the third before Saul spoke again. "She's adorable, Carrie," he said quietly. "I had no sooner sat down when she climbed up in my lap and started petting my beard, saying, 'Kitty. Kitty.' Then she insisted on feeding me some of those little Goldfish crackers."

Carrie closed her eyes. She should be thrilled and touched by this story. Wasn't this exactly what all mothers were supposed to crave? Praise for their children? Adorable anecdotes about their precious antics? All Carrie felt was a queasy emptiness that made her stomach pulse. In this, as in all things related to emotions and mental health, she just couldn't manage to get it right.

"She looks exactly like Brody," Saul said.

"I know," she replied, hating herself for the quiver in her voice. "She looks more and more like him every time I see her. " She rubbed her forehead and silently counted to ten, trying to will away the tears, but it didn't help; when she opened her eyes again her cheeks were damp within seconds. "My father wants her to call me Aunt Carrie, Saul," she blurted.

"What? Why?"

"He thinks when she gets older, it will be too confusing for her to have a 'Mommy' that lives halfway around the world, " she said in a strangled whisper.

Saul didn't respond, but she could tell from his rigid posture, the tension in his jaw, she had his undivided attention. She wished they were sitting across from each other somewhere, so he could take both of her hands in his and look at her in that way that meant he understood and would do what he could to help.

"And maybe he's right," she said. "I don't feel like her mother. I have no idea how to act around her. I can't even talk to her when we're Skyping, how the hell am I supposed to do it when we're in the same room?"

He reached for her hand and clasped it tightly. "Let me guess. Your father has it in his head that you're going to talk about this while you're home and everything will be resolved, right?" She nodded, swiping at her wet cheeks with her free hand. "Well, he's wrong, Carrie This is a question with no answer right now."

"What does that mean?" she asked with a wet sniff.

"It means this is something you and your dad need to let Nicole work out for herself. Let her take you both where she wants you to go."

Carrie looked out at the river of cars racing along ahead without really seeing them. It was starting to get dark, and her tears made halos of the headlights on the other side of the road. "You think that'll work?"

"I think it's your only choice," he said. "If you and Frank can't agree on what to do, you have to leave it up to her."

"She's only fifteen months old, Saul."

"She'll figure it out before she leaves for college. And a million things could change between now and then. It will work itself out."

"But is it right –" A lump rose in her throat, cutting off her words, and Carrie had to swallow around it a few times before she could continue. "Is it right that she has no one she can call either Mom or Dad?"

Saul turned his head to watch a state trooper zoom by, overhead lights flashing. Traffic slowed ahead as several drivers merged into their lane, getting out of the trooper's way. "I think I see what's really going on here," Saul said quietly, once the trooper was finally out of sight. "You have nothing to feel guilty about, Carrie."

"How can you even say that?"

"She's with people who care about her and who are taking excellent care of her. It doesn't matter what she calls those people, or what she calls anyone, as far as that goes. What matters is she has everything she needs."

"She doesn't have her father."

"No. But she has your father."

She nodded miserably. That much was true; her dad was a wonderful grandfather. And Nicole would never know the difference. She couldn't grieve for something she'd never known.

Carrie wasn't so lucky.

A few of her tears dripped onto the back of Saul's hand, and she brushed them away. "I miss him."

"I know," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

There was nothing more to be said after that. This was a problem neither she nor Saul would ever be able to solve. Carrie sat quietly for the remainder of the drive, watching the crescent moon rise in the twilight sky, listening to the hum of the tires as the road passed by beneath. Her cheeks were dry by the time they reached the familiar streets of Maggie's neighborhood, her heart not quite at peace, but at least soothed by the presence of her oldest, dearest friend.

"Can you stop here?" she asked when they were half a block from Maggie's house, and he pulled up to the curb and killed the engine without hesitation.

"Need a minute?" he said, and she nodded. It was full dark by now, and the houses on both sides of the street were framed with brightly colored lights, their lawns dotted with tacky plastic reindeer and Santas brandishing candy canes. Up ahead on the right she could see Maggie's house, eaves trimmed with white icicle lights. The front windows were filled with the dark shadow of a huge Christmas tree, as yet unlighted because they were waiting for her to help decorate it.

Her daughter was waiting for her in there. Her nieces, her sister. Her father. Her family.

_Home_, she thought. _Dad was right. I am coming home._

She took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out in a long stream. "When I was a little kid," she said, drawing the childhood memory from a place she hadn't visited in decades, "everyone in the family called my grandmother Grammy except me. I couldn't say Grammy; it came out Goggy instead. That's what I called her until she died." The memory made her smile, further loosening the knot inside her chest. She glanced at Saul. "I think I understand what you were saying."

"And you know," he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "if you did try to tell her what to do, she'd probably end up rebelling. She is a Mathison girl, after all."

Carrie laughed softly, turning toward him again and leaning her head back against the headrest. "I'm so glad you're here," she said. "This is the perfect Christmas present."

"It's also the fifth night of Hanukkah," he replied, pointing to the glove compartment. "There's a dreidel and some chocolate gelt in there. I brought it for Nicole, but I think you could use it more."

"I don't know," she said skeptically, opening the glove compartment to retrieve the small mesh bag. "I think European chocolate may have spoiled me for the American stuff."

But when she peeled the gold foil from two of the chocolate coins, handing one to Saul, the taste was sweet on her tongue.


End file.
